


Nightfall

by snapeslittleblackbuttons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-09 06:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4337360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapeslittleblackbuttons/pseuds/snapeslittleblackbuttons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much like the subtle passage of day into night, the express hour that it had happened was lost to him. And what he hid now, after its happening, felt dark even to himself. A post-DH, SS/HG romance. HEA. Comments are sincerely appreciated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All things Harry Potter are expressly owned by J. K. Rowling.

Severus stood in his secluded back yard, rooted by the weight of his heavy wool cloak, surrounded by a tangle of leafless oaks stretching toward a darkening sky. Swirling the last of his brandy absentmindedly, he surveyed the dormant garden then the purple above; the last vestiges of the day were fading.

Twilight seemed to stretch on without end for him, teasing the arrival of true nightfall. The precise instant when day transformed into night was imperceptible no matter how hard he tried to pinpoint it; he could only look back from the darkness of the other side, after its passing, to discover it had happened right before his eyes without notice.

Much like the subtle passage of day into night, the express hour that it had happened was lost to him. And what he hid now, after its happening, felt dark even to himself. He knocked back the snifter of brandy in his hand with a grimace. _Letch. I’m old enough to have fathered her. It’s sick._

She had come to him after a mere month of classes, protesting that Advanced Potions wasn’t challenging her. That she had been thirsty for more _instruction_. That N.E.W.T.S. were imminent and Slughorn had _refused_ her. That Slughorn hadn’t sufficient confidence in her abilities to consent to mentor her. She had demanded _he_ teach her, she’d _demanded_ , the presumptuous, insolent brat.

But then he’d taken one look at her riotous hair making its own demands, and nearly laughed. _Good God. Granger._

He had suppressed a smirk and assured her that he understood what it was like — that instinctive, almost carnal, irrepressible need to learn, to conquer a subject. To master it. And he’d agreed.

Yes, he could certainly empathize with her; her insatiable drive to learn was almost a match for his own. Yet, that had not been the real reason that he had agreed to take her on. In part, he had acquiesced as payment for the debt that he owed her for nursing him to health after Nagini’s attack. In that last summer, the summer that they had been finally freed of Voldemort, she had grown into much more than his former student; without her, he would have never survived. There were few things that she hadn’t done for him, and he had accepted her help without fully understanding why she had offered it. As for the rest of the reason that he had agreed…well, it was best to keep that hidden from her...from everyone.

He may have been on the verge of forty, but, God help him, he wasn’t blind.

The day after he had named himself her mentor, he had discovered her on the doorstep of his unassuming cottage, arms laden with tattered potions books, brown eyes bright with anticipation. In the beginning, she had come to him daily after classes for perhaps an hour of guided potions lessons, no more. Lately, she lingered in his library far past any deliberate study – far past twilight, even. Seemingly, his cottage had become her refuge. It was her eighth year: he knew that she felt like she didn’t fit in at Hogwarts anymore; he had understood that, too. He had never really fit in there himself.

And then, at some point amidst those countless days of stirring potions counterclockwise, of languid evenings perusing parchment by firelight, of tending rare plants in the quiet of the backyard—it had happened, unnoticed, in the same way night had arrived.

She was no longer the insufferable pest with questionable hair. No longer simply the young, pretty witch that fed his private middle-aged fantasies. She had become so much more. His cottage—God, his _life_ —was empty without her.

Now, on this dark night, as the month of November drew to a close, he shrugged off his grey wool cloak and entered the sitting room, the warmth from the softly crackling fire welcome on his chilled skin. More brandy was in order.

She stood at his desk, beside his empty chair, casually rifling through the post he had ignored that morning. He stopped to appraise her. She no longer wore her school robes at the cottage; the green brocade she had chosen this evening was lovely against her skin. He realized abruptly she had wrapped herself in the colour of his house.

“Miss Granger, is there anything for…” The words evaporated on his tongue. He cleared his throat and closed his eyes briefly. It was a ridiculous question. _Of course_ there would be post for him. _All of it_ was for him. This was his home, for heaven’s sake, even though a day hardly passed without her presence there.

He glanced out the sitting room window. The night was clear and sharp and still. Darkness itched to fill the small room and the tiny spaces between them. This had gotten out of hand. He—they needed to speak of it.

He rephrased the question, leaving the words open to her interpretation, and the emphasis, subtle yet clear enough for her to discern, if that was her desire. “ _Hermione_ ….” He drew in a ragged breath. “ _Hermione_...do _you_ …have anythin’… _for me?_ ” The last two words came out a whisper.

The question was not about the owls in her hand.

Her eyes, the colour of bourbon in the firelight, did not stray from the parchments before her, but widened slightly at the use of her given name — twice in as many seconds. He had never spoken it before. He was close enough to notice her try to still her hand from visibly shaking.

It appeared that his question had rendered the sometimes garrulous Miss Hermione Granger speechless.

He decided to force the conversation; it was required to retain his sanity. He crossed the space between them and grabbed her wrist, not harshly but not particularly gently, either. She jumped. He pulled her out the back door to the private garden and sat her down on a rough cold stone bench, dropping himself down a few scant inches from her. The night enveloped them, the darkness feeding his willingness to talk.

He bent forward, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair. “What are we going to do?” he asked softly, eyes on the flagstone at his feet. He reached down and singled out a dried oak leaf, busying himself with separating the thin, desiccated brown from the centre rib.

“I don’t know,” she responded earnestly, as if she had pondered this identical question and it had utterly confounded her.

He turned then to look at her. She was staring forward, still as stone, face flushed from the cold or perhaps, the conversation. Her bushy hair, rebellious as ever, was planning its escape from the tie at the base of her neck. He longed to free it. He yearned to grab a handful, twist it until it strained at the roots, forcing her head away to expose more of her neck for him to ravage with his teeth. Then he pictured his fingers entwining it more deeply, using it as leverage as he took her from behind… _Good God, where had_ that _come from? I’ve lost my fucking mind._

She turned and met his eyes. “Severus…what do you want to do?” she whispered into the darkness between them.

It was a simple enough question.

He had never heard a word spoken as enticing as his given name escaping her lips. Clothed in it was a promise. A future. So he answered her question the only way that he knew how: _“this, only…this.”_

He pulled her lips toward his, guiding her by the gentle pressure of his hand against the back of her neck. He kissed her, slowly at first, then deepening the kiss so that they both emerged breathless.

Her lips were still parted expectantly, her honey coloured eyes half-closed languidly as if in blissful satisfaction and longing. He held her face in his hand, caressing her cheek with his thumb, and remarked, “Hermione…you’re so young. It’s not…appropriate for me to…”

Her eyes snapped open. “I’ll be the one to decide that, Severus.” His name again, tinged with a gentle rebuke. He’d nearly forgotten her stubbornness; no one could tell her what to do or how to feel—not even him.

“Why would you want me?” he persisted. “You are beautiful, intelligent, young…you could have anyone you please. It is…irrational.”

“I want you. I don’t want anyone else.” She paused to take a breath. “You forget how attractive you are. You forget…how brilliant.” Her eyes followed her own hand as it reached up, her longest finger gently tracing his hairline down past the swell of his ear and then his jawline, finally coming to rest at the point of his chin. She returned her hand to her lap. He let his eyes fall shut momentarily, mourning the loss of her touch. “We have a connection, you and I. I know you feel it.”

There was no hiding anything from her. He did.

 “I’m in love with you, Severus.”

This woman before him deserved a response from the man that she had fallen in love with, not this bumbling idiot, who’d brought up the difference in their age and reasons she should run, as if she had not weighed those things with cold precision herself. Enough of this simpering man that he’d become during these last few moments. He pulled on his dry sense of humor and sarcasm like his most familiar cloak.

He cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my awesome beta Metatrix for her feedback on this chapter (and putting up with me)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Battle of Hogwarts, 6 Months Prior**

 

_“Madam Pomfrey! MADAM POMFREY!”_

Several heads swiveled towards Hermione as her scream sliced through the rapidly filling infirmary, tearing through the subdued voices of the healers and the whimpers of the injured. She didn’t stop running until she was in front of the Madam Pomfrey herself. The healer turned from the red Blood-Replenishing potion she had been rapidly measuring into cups, raising an eyebrow at the disturbance.

“What is it, child? Merlin help us, it’s not Mr. Pot—“

Madam Pomfrey stopped as Hermione shook her head. Her breath came in great gasps as she drank in the air, desperately trying to recover from her sprint enough to speak. She bent over, hands on her kneecaps. “No…no,” she finally managed, looking up through a tangle of her unruly hair. “Professor Snape’s been attacked. _Please_ , Madam Pomfrey. He needs your help. He might be…I think…he’s dying. The snake…”

She recognized Madam Pomfrey’s split second hesitation, then watched her eyes fill with steely determination. “Where, child?”

“The Shrieking Shack.”

Madam Pomfrey moved faster than Hermione thought possible, grabbing her kit, hiking up her grey robes and bolting out the door, Hermione at her heels, suddenly aware that she, like the healer, would volunteer to do anything, absolutely anything, to help the man survive, Death Eater or no.

* * *

 

She’d been returning to the Hogwarts Infirmary with Madam Pomfrey, the stretcher advancing next to them—its bloody and unconscious burden silent but _alive_ —when a familiar call rang through the hallway. “ _Hermione_ …”

She turned in the direction of the voice. Harry stood rooted in a partially crumbled doorway across from her, an odd expression on his face, eyes wandering to the stretcher then back to her.

“Harry!” Hermione ran at her best friend and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.

“I’m going to meet him,” he said to her softly, returning her embrace, “alone.”

“I knew you would,” she said desperately into his chest, feeling the prick of imminent tears.

“But there’s something I need to tell you first, Hermione.” Hermione pulled her face away and looked at Harry curiously. He paused and glanced at the stretcher again as it continued its progression down the hall, flanked by Madam Pomfrey. “I’ve just come from Dumble—the Headmaster’s Office. I’ve used the Pensieve. Snape’s _memories_ were in the phial.”

“I’m sorry…? What…?” she breathed out loud. She felt her world might be beginning to tilt dangerously out of her control.

“Hermione…Dumbledore always said he trusted Snape, but he would never tell us _why_. Snape was the one who told Voldemort about the prophecy. Before Voldemort killed my parents, Snape begged Voldemort to spare her life and he wouldn’t.” Hermione wasn’t following. _Her?_ Who? “Snape loved her, you see? _He loved my mother._ He’s been protecting us—me—this entire time because of her. _He sent us the sword_ , Hermione. And Dumbledore made Snape promise to kill him. All but begged him to. Dumbledore was dying anyway, because of the ring. All these years, after everythin’, no matter what, he stayed Dumbledore’s man.”

“What…? I don’t under—“ she sputtered, trying to fit the pieces of what Harry was telling her together. He was not making sense.

“I wanted you to know. In case, you know, I don’t come back.”

“Don’t say that, Harry.”

He gave her a hard look and ignored her comment. “Listen. Here are my memories of what I saw in the Pensieve. It will explain everythin’.” He looked at her intently as he handed her the silvery phial. “Make sure everyone knows what a brave man he is. Whether or not he lives. Hermione, it’s important to me that his name is cleared. Promise me.”

“Harry, I…sure. Sure, I will.”

Harry turned and left without a backward glance as she looked down at the phial in her hand, blurry from the tears that threatened to never end.

* * *

 

“Madam Pomfrey...”

“Yes, child.” She responded as if she was barely paying attention, not even turning from the injured wizard she was attending.

“I’ve just come from the Headmaster’s Office. I need to talk to you.” Hermione fashioned her expression into one of urgency—at least that was what she hoped, anyway. Madam Pomfrey looked up from her patient momentarily. Apparently what she’d done was enough; Madam Pomfrey waived another mediwitch over to relieve her and maneuvered Hermione by the shoulder into a quiet corner. She looked at Hermione expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

She gave the mediwitch the one piece of information that had changed everything, at least for her. “It seems Professor Snape was indeed following orders when he killed Professor Dumbledore. He was following _Dumbledore’s_ orders, Madam Pomfrey.”

The older witch looked at her intently. “Are you saying the Headmaster _ordered_ Professor Snape to kill him?”

“Yes. Professor Dumbledore was dying, and he believed that if Professor Snape killed him, it would remove any doubt Voldemort might have that Professor Snape was his devoted servant. Professor Snape remained loyal to the Order. He never betrayed us, regardless of what we thought we saw. I thought you would like to know.”

Madam Pomfrey paused for a moment. “Thank you, Miss Granger.”

Hermione responded only with a weak and tired smile. She turned away to move across the room, searching among the broken for the man she despised until a scant hour ago. Finally finding him, she sank down into a chair next to her former Potions professor, took his limp hand in her own, and once again collapsed into tears.

* * *

 

Hours later, Hermione had not left the wooden chair beside her former professor—nor had her hand left his. Her mind was swimming with what she had seen for herself in the Pensieve: Professor Snape had sent the Sword of Gryffindor to them; he had killed Dumbledore on the Headmaster’s own request; he had loved Harry’s mother, Lily…it was almost too much to process. She was grateful for the truth, but she needed time for this correction of her history to settle in her bones and right itself.

Professor Snape remained motionless and pale on the makeshift stretcher for hours, eyes closed, features slack and body covered in dried blood. So motionless and pale that every so often, Hermione needed Madam Pomfrey to assure her that he was still alive. She would not, however, guarantee he would live.

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione turned from the still and blood-stained form of the current headmaster to the mediwitch, on her latest round to tend the injured and reassure nearby family and friends—not to mention former students.

“He cannot go to St. Mungo’s, and he cannot stay here,” Madam Promfrey said evenly, although not loudly.

“Why ever not?” Hermione responded, sounding rather defensive even to her own ear.

“Too many still do not believe, child,” she responded, a note of sadness in her voice.

Hermione’s eyes set upon the floor. If they did not believe now, after her own testimony, after _Harry’s_ for heaven’s sake, they would never believe. And if he was not safe in St. Mungo’s, no place in the wizarding world was safe. Even in the scant hours she’d been in the infirmary, she’d been the recipient of sidelong looks while holding Professor Snape’s hand, so she knew Madam Pomfrey had spoken the truth. She met the healer’s blue eyes and found kindness there.

“I know somewhere he could be taken. But he’ll need someone to care for him,” the mediwitch offered softly.

“I’ll do it.”

“Miss Granger. He will require constant care. You do not have any experience as a healer. And Professor Snape can be a rather…trying patient. I can ask for volunteers from other healers to see who might be willing to help.”

“But you said he wouldn’t be safe at St. Mungo’s. How would we know that someone who comes to care for him wouldn’t cause him harm instead?”

_“Miss Granger,”_ reprimanded Madam Pomfrey. Hermione supposed the correction was given on behalf of absent colleagues that might have taken offense _._ She found that she did not care.

“I can do it.”

“So you say.” Madam Pomfrey gave her a hard, appraising look. “And I don’t doubt you _can_. I just wonder if you will be _willing_ after Professor Snape wakes—assuming he does.”

Hermione felt her face flush with anger. Did Madam Pomfrey honestly believe that a snarky, grouchy Professor Snape could dissuade her? Did she think Hermione was unable to imagine what it would be like to care for the man? She’d been the recipient of his barbs for ages. She’d been living in a tent for nigh on a year, fighting hunger and fear and cold constantly, hunting dark magic encased in bits of _junk_ enchanted by of one of the most powerful dark wizards in history. Good God, she just survived a _battle_ and nearly watched him _die_ , for heaven’s sake. Did she really think she’d scurry away like a timid mouse after a few acid remarks? _She needed this, damn it_. She had spent months breaking things, destroying things. Most days she felt her _own_ soul had been ripped apart in the process. She needed to know it was still possible that she could help _repair_ something… _someone_. “I know what he’s like, Madam Pomfrey. Besides, you said he may not even survive,” she responded fiercely.

Madam Pomfrey ignored her tone and continued, “And I will not have you go blaming yourself if he doesn’t. Strictly speaking, it won’t be because you are lacking in experience in healing. He’s very far gone. I won’t have his death burdening you with regret. Regret is what brought Professor Snape right where he is today,” she replied sharply, indicating the bed where he lay.

“Madam Pomfrey, the only regret I’ll have is if I _don’t_ do everything I can to help him.”

She gave Hermione another appraising look. “All right then, child. Professor Snape owns a home in Hogsmeade. You will take him there. I’ll go collect the things you’ll need.” And at that, she turned away, leaving Hermione to ponder exactly what she had signed up for.

* * *

 

From the stacks of ancient tomes on potion-making and the Dark Arts, to the subdued leather chairs turned expectantly toward the fireplace, to the sparse kitchen and the lush private garden, Professor Snape’s modest cottage in Hogsmeade undoubtedly reflected its owner. But how much did she know about the man, really? Other than the face he revealed to terrified students, how much did she truly know? She set about his home pondering this question, looking for answers everywhere she could.

As she tried to unravel the mysterious man through the relics in his home, she tended his wounds and administered potions delivered by the infirmary. She spent endless hours researching cures to add to the daily repertoire of concoctions she administered onto his skin and through his lips. She cleaned him, bathed him, clothed him; eventually, she read his own potions books to him while he lay unaware in the bed, all the while fretting that she had chosen something that might bore him. He barely woke during the long weeks directly following what became known as the Battle of Hogwarts, his body too embroiled in a fight to survive to bother with consciousness.

Much to Hermione’s dismay, Madam Pomfrey was right: too many still did not believe despite Harry’s testimony. Even after the trial by the Wizengamot (a formality, she’d been assured) and his absolution, Hermione could see no reason to move Professor Snape to a hospital that had not only exceeded its capacity, but might prove dangerous to his well-being. So she set forth to stay, as long as it took, to see him healed.

* * *

 

Gradually his body strengthened enough for him to wake, although he stayed in bed, frail, wan, and, if she guessed correctly, despondent, even though his long time enemy was gone. She supposed he was grieving his losses and growing accustomed to the idea that he had survived the war. _Or perhaps he’s grieving he’s survived the war._

Although is sarcasm had not yet returned, his formality certainly never left him.

“Miss Granger, a word, if you please,” came his velvet call, still weak, from the depths of his bedroom. She presented herself in the doorway, stilling her face so he could not see her relief at hearing the rich timbre of his voice again.

“ _Why_ are you here, Miss Granger?”

She knew better than to respond with _because you need me_. “I am to attend you while you recover, Professor.”

“By some self-imposed punishment, I assume?” he responded wearily, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“No, Professor.”

His black eyes opened, giving her a probing look. “Then why, Miss Granger?”

She remained silent under his scrutiny. He had been as good of a teacher outside the classroom as in it: she fashioned her face as unreadable, unreachable, as his had always been.

“Never mind. Leave me to sleep,” he added dismissively when he had failed to exact an answer.

“Yes, Professor.” She turned on her heel and left the room.

* * *

 

Eventually, he was able to clean and dress himself, so she was reduced to bringing him his meals and healing potions. One morning, she’d been picking up empty potion phials off his nightstand when the left sleeve of her robes slipped toward her elbow.

His hand darted out and captured her wrist in a vicelike grip. “What is…?”

The heat had convinced her to wear a short sleeve shirt under her robes. She’d been careless: he had seen the edge of her scar. “It’s nothing, sir.”

“It’s _something_ , Miss Granger.”

“It’s nothing that can be fixed, Professor.” She saw his eyes widen a fraction.

He had not let go of her wrist. He pulled the sleeve back with the fingers of his other hand, exposing the entire mark. He cringed. “Who did this to you, Miss Granger?”

She swallowed hard. “Bellatrix.” He peered at it closely and ran his fingers over the word, and sending a shiver up her back. “It seems to be a cursed scar,” she continued shakily, “no potion has been able to remove it, sir.”

He locked eyes with her, still gripping her wrist; her fingers were beginning to turn red and tingle. “I’m sorry you had to see it, Professor,” she said, unsteadily.

“I’m sorry you have to bear it, Miss Granger,” he said in a strange voice as he loosened his grip, and she pulled her arm away, nearly running from the bedroom.

She changed her mind, halting in the doorway, her back to him. “Some scars are hidden. Others are just easier to see. They are much the same, Professor.”

She looked back over her shoulder and saw that he was staring at the brand on his own left forearm. “Indeed, Miss Granger. Indeed.”

It was then that she ran, only stopping when she had reached the garden, its privacy granting her permission for the tears that came.                                                       

* * *

 

She looked in on him late that evening, hoping he was sleeping since she was still embarrassed by her flight from the room after he had seen her scar. She pushed open the door to see that his eyes were closed, and his hair was partially eclipsing the pillow beneath him. He always looked so peaceful to her as he slept.

His long black hair fascinated her: thin, silky and straight, dark as his eyes, like sheets of shadow casting their own echo on either side of his angled face. So unlike hers. She gazed at it now, and found she could lose track of time as she did so, forgetting where or who she was, even though she had only grazed it unintentionally with her fingertips perhaps once or twice. Tonight, she allowed herself the liberty of imagining what it would be like to run her fingers through it. She shut the bedroom door and returned to the kitchen.

* * *

 

The antique sitting room clock chimed 7:30 a.m. as Hermione carried in his breakfast, as she had done every day for the last four weeks. To her shock, he was sitting up in bed waiting for it, or perhaps, her. He looked to the tray, laden with tea and the rest of his meal, then met her eyes. “I owe you, Miss Granger.”

“You owe me nothing, Professor,” she responded evenly.

“I am no longer your professor, Miss Granger,” he said in an odd voice, as though lacking his title of _Professor_ , he wasn’t sure who he was.

“Of course. My apologies, sir.”

“This is not strictly necessary, Miss Granger.”

“I understand, sir.” After a moment: “Are you asking me to leave?”

He paused, as though responding pained him in ways far greater than any physical trauma he had experienced. “You may stay as long as you wish,” he finally managed.

“Yes, sir.” In the months that followed, Hermione clung to that statement much more desperately and far, far longer than she had expected she would need to.


	3. Chapter 3

**September**

Hermione bounded down the hall toward the entrance to the dungeons, her maroon-edged robe rippling behind her. Finding the door to the potions professor’s office, she knocked sharply. The door creaked open an inch. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, Professor Slughorn. My apologies for disturbing you, sir. Do you have a moment?”

“Not at all, my dear girl, not at all. Now, how can I help you?” The portly man patted his vast middle with one puffy hand as he pulled his office door wide for her to enter. Obviously, he’d forgotten her name again. God, she _hated_ when he did that.

“Well, Professor, I am enjoying your Advanced Potions class very much this semester, however I feel that, perhaps, a different avenue of study might prepare me for N.E.W.T.S. more effectively.”

“Whatever do you mean, my dear?”

Now she’d been reduced to _dear_ from _my dear girl_. Fabulous. She was no one’s _dear_ , thank-you-very-much. The blithering idiot hadn’t any idea what she was getting to. She decided clarity was her best option and angled her chin upward. “I’m requesting an internship. I’m asking if you would mentor me in potions, sir.”

“Oh, my dear, that’s simply not possible,” he said, a look on his face as though she had asked him to subsist on a diet of raw spiders or give up crystallised pineapple permanently.

She had not strategized a response to outright dismissal. In fact, Hermione had not even considered he might refuse her request. “May I inquire as to why, Professor?” she asked boldly.

“My dear girl, you have no business doing an internship in potions,” he said in the most condescending air she had ever remembered hearing. “I’m afraid you do not have the potential for any study more advanced than what you’ve already been given. Perhaps another student would consent to tutor you if you feel that you need more preparation for your N.E.W.T.S.”

Ask another _student_ to tutor her? Perhaps he could suggest a first year that still couldn’t find the dungeons without help? Perhaps a seventh year who had been retrieved last fall by their parents so they could stay insulated from the war, safe in the comfort of their own home? She could follow directions just as well the next _student_ , likely better, thank you very much—and that was all that was needed for N.E.W.T.S. True, she didn’t have the natural gift that elevated potion-making to an art form, but that didn’t make her incapable of learning a damn sight more than what he’d been teaching her in class.

She swallowed the acid remarks that had bubbled to the surface and fashioned her face into an appropriate look of disappointment, masking her anger. “I appreciate your candor, Professor. Thank you for your time.”

“Goodnight, my dear girl.” His door shuffled closed in her face.

She practically ran from the dungeons, her bushy hair unraveling from its tie, her desire only to cloister herself up in the Gryffindor dormitory for the remainder of the evening. First years squeaked out of her way as she stomped up the stairs. How was she going to survive the year? How, without the distraction of being utterly overwhelmed and in over her head, could she adjust to the loss of so much, so many? How could she go from the world crumbling around her to a sedate classroom without some sort of crutch? She’d only been back at the recently repaired school for four scant weeks, but without Harry and Ron she felt lost. Rudderless. They had started pursuing careers; she condemned herself to completing her education. She didn’t belong here, but she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to finish what she started.

 _If only Professor Snape was here, he’d help me_. Wait. What was she thinking, offering herself up to that blathering excuse for a professor when right in Hogsmeade was a Potions Master worth her time? And he might feel he owed her, in some twisted way. _Perfect_. Thank God Slughorn _hadn’t_ agreed. What had she been thinking? Besides, she _missed_ the cottage.

The following day after classes, she made for Hogsmeade. Autumn was tugging at the sky, making even the clouds seem melancholy. She’d missed how safe she had always felt at the cottage, actually. She had seen firsthand many sections of Hogwarts nearly leveled in the war, and that memory left her suspicious and uneasy in the dormitory, as if it was less safe than it appeared. And the restored parts, although expertly fitted against what had withstood the battle, seemed like forgeries. Purposely deceptive and utterly without character. Or history.

The cottage, on the other hand, had never been touched by the war. It had been her home for the last summer, and part of her still felt like she belonged there. Its private garden had been a pleasant place to recover from the horrors of the last battle, a quiet corner in which to persuade her nerves that the war was over. Professor Snape had spent most of the summer in his bed, regaining his strength, so most of the cottage and its property had been hers to enjoy, alone.

As she wandered the path from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade, a chilly autumn wind amused itself with her hair; she suddenly wished she had brought her scarf. She reached the familiar deep green door, took a deep breath, and knocked sharply. She rubbed her hands together and blew in them.

“Miss Granger,” he said, with the barest hint of surprise, his eyes assessing her from head to toe, as if it had been more than a mere month since she had last graced his doorstep.

“Sir.”

“May I…help you with something, Miss Granger?” Good God, had his voice always reverberated in her belly like that, reminding her of velvet, chocolate, parchment, silk? And he looked…rested. Healthy. Handsome…? _Stop it, schoolgirl fantasies don’t become you. You just miss being here, that’s all._

“Sir, if I may.” A gust of wind came up suddenly, whipping her hair into her face. She batted it away. “I would like—“ She stopped herself. “Sir, would you consider mentoring me in potions?”

“Mentoring you in potions, Miss Granger? Why would I do such a thing?” he smirked.

 _Oh, this was not going well._ “Sir, N.E.W.T.S. are coming up.”

“I am well aware the time of year N.E.W.T.S. are administered, Miss Granger.” He gifted her another smirk.

“I feel that I am not adequately prepared for them, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not…prepared? They are months away. Certainly Professor Slughorn is covering the required material during class.”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

He paused for a moment. “So it is less a matter of being prepared for N.E.W.T.S. than it is your wish to learn beyond the current seventh year curriculum.”

God, she had never been able to hide anything from the man. It was useless to try now. “I suppose so, sir. I don’t find the school curriculum particularly challenging or engaging.”

“No,” he said without missing a beat.

“I’m sorry?”

“ _No_ , Miss Granger.”

“Why?” she asked, doing her best not to sound like a petulant child.

“I have no desire to assist you, Miss Granger,” he said evenly.

She stood there, stunned. “Sir, you must. You simply… _must_. There is no one else that can help me besides you, Professor Snape,” she blurted.

“I _must_? Even you can think of better reasoning than that, Miss Granger.” He paused. “Once again, let me remind you that I am no longer your professor. _Professor Slughorn_ is available. Consult with him. Good day, Miss Granger,” he said and turned to shut the door in her face.

She put her hand on the door to prevent it from closing. “He refused.” Professor Snape raised an eyebrow but did not call her out on her rudeness.

“And why would he refuse you, Miss Granger?”

“Sir. He believes I do not have potential for advanced study, to use his phrase.”

Professor Snape raised another eyebrow. “You do not have potential?” he repeated slowly.

“Sir. Please,” she said earnestly. She looked in his black eyes and steeled herself for a second rejection in as many days.

Another gust of wind blew and her hair exploded into a light brown cloud, assaulting her eyes as if she were being attacked by a mob of pesky insects; she waved her arm fruitlessly to try to keep the mess from forcing her headlong off the front step.

“You _must_ ,” she repeated, her frustration with her hair coming out in her tone as her hand attempted to bat away the onslaught.

She could see a smile threating the edges of his mouth. The wind died. She waited, certain that he was reconsidering his reasons for rejecting her request.

“Come tomorrow after your classes are complete. We shall begin then, Miss Granger.” And this time, he did shut the door in her face.

* * *

 

“Granger, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” his eyes were sharp with reprimand, his face assuming the countenance of the professor that terrified first years. He’d resorted to addressing her by her last name only. She supposed it might be viewed as an improvement. She had never liked the way he emphasized _Miss_ ; it reminded her of her brief but flawed relationship with Ron, and how she had once harbored a daydream that she would be finished with Hogwarts and _Mrs_. Hermione Weasley by now. The aftermath of the war had turned everything to dust and ash, bitter in her mouth. _Granger_ was who she had become. Just…Granger.

Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who needed to be healed after the war.

The rebuke was warranted, however. She had returned an empty cauldron to the flame, threatening to permanently singe it or turn it into molten rubble. Where was her mind?

Well, it was on the last several weeks, she supposed. She knew, damn it, she _knew_ what he was like before becoming his intern: caustic, acerbic, derisive…yet she had volunteered herself for it. He never missed an opportunity to openly mock her as if she were an ignorant, errant child. Did she enjoy abuse in some sadistic way?

 _“Do you believe the lacewing will simply crush itself,_ Miss _Granger?”_

 _“Truly, I thought you had more sense than to add another clockwise turn,_ Miss _Granger. You’ve rendered the potion unusable. That was insurmountably stupid. Begin again.”_

 _“Have you no idea as to what this potion’s proper color is at this stage of brewing,_ Miss _Granger?”_

He was speaking to her. Damn, what had he been saying? “How is it that you believe this constitutes an appropriate amount of Wormwort? It…is…not…sufficient,” his clipped tone wounded her, although she couldn’t imagine why it would. Startled, she returned her focus to the mortar and pestle, but didn’t reply.

“Has your hearing been affected since I spoke to you last? Or has your brain filled to capacity, and you are therefore now unable to process language?”

“No, sir.”

She knew a lesser person would have run by now. But she also knew she was not that person.

* * *

 

 _“Shit!”_ She had tried to keep the obscenity under her breath; unfortunately it escaped her lips, but not his notice.

“Miss Granger?” came his question from the other room.

“My apologies, sir, I’ve cut my hand,” she explained through gritted teeth.

He was at her side instantly. “Let me see it.”

He opened his hand for her to place hers inside. Although she was aghast at the amount of blood leaking from the jagged wound, she immediately felt better once she had placed her hand in his. She glanced at his hair spilling forward as he examined her cut, and wondered for the millionth time what it would feel like entwined in her fingers. She barely stilled her free hand from reaching out to touch it _. Stop it. I don’t care what his hair feels like._

He cast the spell to heal the deep slice in her palm, singing the incantation in his rich, velvet voice, holding on to her hand a bit longer than was strictly necessary. _And I don’t care what his voice sounds like, either._ Her treasonous stomach did a little flip anyway. “Are you all right?” he asked softly, running his thumb over the place where his magic had healed her, and as he met her eyes, she saw that his expression had changed. Something in his black eyes had…softened. What did she see, exactly? Concern? Affection? Desire? _Don’t be ridiculous. He practically despises you. He was only concerned that you cut your hand. Obviously, the sight of your own blood left you daft._

“Yes. Thank you, sir.”

The edge of his lips twitched into a would-be smile. “Of course.”

As she lay in her bed in the Gryffindor dormitory that night, running her fingers over the place where he had healed her, Hermione pictured her small hand in his and the look in his infinitely black eyes as he held it. Had she made the right decision asking Professor Snape for an internship? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t quit now—it was nearly the middle of October. If she could only get through his sharp demeanor. Somehow become his friend. His confidant.

If they were friends, she knew she wouldn’t be as taken with his brief moment of kindness.

* * *

 

Saturday morning she arrived at the cottage before 9 a.m., ready to plunge into her next assignment. Hermione knocked at the door and heard his call from the far side of the cottage. “Enter, Miss Granger.”

Baffled—since he always answered door personally—she opened the door to find, of all things, Professor Snape in the kitchen, _cooking breakfast_. And it smelled delicious.

“Eh…good morning, sir,” she said, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice.

“Did it not occur to you that I eat, Miss Granger? Perhaps you believed that I subsisted on blood like a vampire or some other sordid thing?”

“Eh…no, sir,” she stuttered.

“Breakfast then, Miss Granger? If my instincts are correct, you do not eat before arriving here on Saturdays. I prefer my cauldrons intact and unsinged, so it is in my best interest to feed you before you begin so you are able to concentrate more fully on the tasks set before you.”

“Thank you, sir.” What was this about? “Do you have a particularly difficult potion in mind for today, sir?” she added to conceal her confusion about his sudden concern for the welfare of his intern and his cauldrons.

“They are all equally difficult for you, Miss Granger,” he smirked as he filled a plate for her, handing it to her and sitting down at the table to eat without further comment.

* * *

 

The sunny but brisk afternoon had given way into a very long evening. Placing the stasis charm on the cauldrons and leaving a notation in her notebook, she turned to leave the potions room, almost crashing into Professor Snape in the doorway. He had a book in his hand and he looked decidedly… uncomfortable. She looked at him blankly. “I thought you might find this…stimulating…assuming you have the intellectual capacity to understand it,” he said, holding it out for her to take.

“Thank you.” She paused, examining the old book in her hands. “Is this from your private collection, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I appreciate you allowing me to borrow it, sir.”

“Of course.”

* * *

 

The following Saturday, Hermione had gathered her belongings into her bag and was staring out the window into the night, unsuccessfully willing herself to leave, when Professor Snape interrupted her thoughts. “Would you care to share a meal with me this evening, Miss Granger?”

“Eh…certainly. I would be honored, sir.”

After the simple meal—which was mostly a silent affair—he got up from the table and crossed to his desk in the sitting room in one graceful move. “A brandy, Miss Granger?” he said over his shoulder, pulling out two snifters and picking up a crystal decanter.

 _Did he just offer me a brandy?_ “Eh…yes, sir.” She knew he favoured his brandy in the evenings, and a walk around his property with a stop in the garden out back, but he had never shared either with her before. She followed into the sitting room and he handed her a glass. She took a sip; it was a fine, rich brandy, gorgeous on her tongue. She closed her eyes in pleasure. “It’s lovely, sir. Thank you.”

Standing, he took a sip of his own and eyed her over his glass. “Nightfall will arrive earlier as the days grow shorter. Additionally, I have noticed that you have been leaving later and later in the evenings, Miss Granger. I am growing more and more concerned about your journey back to the castle. Allow me to escort you to the edge of Hogwarts property each evening.”

“It’s not strictly necessary, sir.”

“I find evening walks to be…therapeutic. Escorting you to the castle is my condition for your further instruction, Miss Granger.” Apparently, the discussion was over.

“Yes, sir.”

He left the room to enter the garden; she did not know if she was supposed to follow or not. She decided to grant him his privacy and remain in the warm sitting room, continuing to enjoy the drink he had poured her.

_A meal, a brandy, and now, an escort home? What on earth…?_

* * *

 

They walked in silence to down the path to Hogsmeade, through the quiet village, finally locating the passage to the castle.

She stole a look at him in the near darkness as they strolled down the path to the Hogwarts gate. His black robes were rippling around him; he was staring ahead, as if he were balancing his discomfort at escorting her with an overwhelming need to protect her. The strained look on his face from his new position as her, eh…personal attendant was… _endearing_. She smiled into the night.

At some point very soon, she would have to accept there were two things in her life that she couldn’t control: first, her incessantly wild, bushy brown hair that had a mind of its own and, second, her growing affection for a certain Potions Master, with his smooth raven hair and silky velvet voice. Of the two, her hair was the more manageable of them. By a long shot.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have circled back in the story to the time of the first scene (Chapter 1). I thought it might be fun to write the scene from Hermione’s point of view, since Chapters 2 and 3 are written from her perspective, too. Let me know what you think. We’ll be returning to Severus in the last chapter of this (albeit short) story. I hope you like it—and thanks for reading.

**November**

 

Unlike the elusive turn of day to night, the break of dawn is evident to anyone brave enough to gaze at it directly. And, if nothing else, Hermione Granger was brave. Brave and…patient.

She had realized the second everything had changed for her. The instant, bright as daybreak, when everything became surprisingly clear. The moment she grasped that it wasn’t simply a misguided schoolgirl crush. It wasn’t some easily-forgotten, fleeting _want_ fueled by chaotic hormones or need for someone, _anyone_ , to heal the broken heart Ron had gifted her. It was more than that. So very much more.

She loved him. She loved him so completely and impossibly that it both shocked and frightened her. Her driving need to be near him and her inability to think of anything but him was so consuming it appalled her. She had fallen so deeply for the man who had been her professor, her mentor, her protector, it was very likely she would always love him with every ounce that made her Hermione Granger.

And of all things, she realized it the moment when he had fixed her hair.

_“GRRRRRR!!”_

_A particularly humid day for late October had left her hair a mess of incongruent coils, bent on torturing her patience until it gave way. It had been in her eyes no matter what she did. And her hands, busy with the ingredients, the knife, the scale, the stirrer, hadn’t a spare moment to tame the ludicrous mass. It was driving her mental._

_He crossed to her as she struggled to capture her hair, his bemused expression only serving to infuriate her more. She gave him what she hoped was a very dark look._

_“Allow me assist you, Miss Granger.”_

_She stilled as his hands moved toward her. She felt his fingers, deft and certain, pulling her hair back into the confines of the clip in one swift movement. He continued coaxing it, brushing the strays upward with the tips of his fingers. His touch was gentle—not tentative or hesitant as one would use for a frightened child—but tender, as one would use to caress a lover. She closed her eyes, her frustration melting, and suppressed a gasp at how her body responded without her permission: her breath quickened, her stomach flipped, her cheeks grew hot. Good God, what would have happened to her if those fingers had grazed her skin as well as her hair?_

_“Better?”_

_His silky velvet voice yanked her out of her reverie, and she opened her eyes, meeting his. A hungry ache blossomed inside her, a longing to reach out and caress the Cupid’s bow curve of his lip, the line of his jaw. She wanted nothing more than to tangle her fingers in his hair and kiss him thoroughly, until they were both breathless, until she felt the weight of his body crushing her, disguising his skin within her own._

_“Yes. Thank you. Sir,” she managed, and returned her focus to the cauldron, biting her lip to force her thoughts into check, hoping her flushed skin had escaped his notice._

_Then she understood: everything was suddenly clear. She had fallen in love with him. Oh my God, how, how had that happened?_

* * *

 

Reflecting on the last few weeks, she recognized that not only had her heart been ready to love him, but his heart had begun to turn to her as well: perhaps his acid tongue was a bit less caustic; perhaps he lingered over her cauldron longer than was strictly required; perhaps he would idle by the front door when she was taking her leave for the day. And perhaps once or twice he had even presented a book to her out of his private collection like a gift without her requesting it.

Perhaps she imagining it, but instinct told her that he felt much more than simple friendship for her. But how much did he care for her? And in what way? Was it the affection of a father for a child? A mentor for his charge? Or admirer for an intended lover? And did he even realize himself that he had begun to care for her?

There was no way for her to be certain. But if, indeed, he had begun to fall in love with her, she would need to be very careful. She suspected he had never known what it was like for another to feel the desire she felt for him. His heart had only experienced misery, guilt, rejection—not exactly the place for her to tread uninvited. She also understood if she moved quickly, his heart would flee with the alacrity of a frightened bird.

She would remain who he needed her to be for now: his student apprentice. Nothing more.

So she presented herself daily at his home, like a bound, indentured servant, incapable—much like a house elf—of even summoning the desire to break free, waiting, each day waiting, for him to take the next step and make his intentions clear.

She would respect his silence. His timing. She was a patient woman, after all.

* * *

 

She had risen early that Saturday to prepare for her study at the cottage. _What to wear? It seemed he may have liked the green when I wore it last…yes, the green today._

The day crawled long and tedious toward afternoon, as she toiled over a particularly complex potion that required her constant attention. By early evening, she was too spent to even read, although she had little desire to return to her lonely dormitory to rest. As day faded into night, a deep, liquid darkness and barbed cold invaded the cottage and blanketed the room. The clink of glass and the pull of a door alerted her that her mentor was taking his evening stroll around the property.

She was standing in the small sitting room, looking through the mail, as she was wont to do. It was something he tended to ignore, so she had taken it upon herself to read and sort it at the end of each day. Some posts were orders for potions; others, payments for goods delivered. He rarely received personal correspondence. On those occasions where he did, she had not read beyond the salutation. She knew he was a private man, but somehow inserting herself into his mail—and into his life—brokered no complaint. It was as if he were demonstrating that he had nothing to hide from her. It seemed to her that it was his way of allowing her in, inviting her to understand him, to know him better. To trust there was no other but her in his life. At least that was what she hoped.

She once again heard the shudder of the door fixing itself in the jamb and the clink of glass against glass. The sound of heavy wool pummeling a chair as he tossed his cloak. Then silence as thick as the night outside.

It was late; she should go. Instead, she continued rifling through the post.

“Miss Granger, is there anything for…”

He stopped abruptly. She stilled her tongue and froze. Obviously there was something more he wanted to say.

“ _Hermione_ ….” She heard him take a breath and set his glass, heavy with brandy, on the table. _“Hermione…_ do _you_ …have anythin’ _…for me?”_

She heard it. He had always spoken so carefully, so purposely, from his cadence to his choice of words, he communicated volumes that might be lost on a less exacting ear than hers. So this had been no mistake. The emphasis on _you_ , the whispered _for me…God, did he really mean…?_ Her eyes widened. _He used my name. Could he…?_

She stilled her tongue again, forcing herself to picture a terrified finch in flight.

She didn’t raise her head, but felt him draw near, in haste, to grab her wrist and wrench her out the back door to the garden where he cultivated the plants that he needed for his work. She hadn’t intended to jump; she hadn’t expected his hands on her so abruptly, or for his skin to be so warm and inviting, seemly at odds with his tight grip. Sadness seized her. Was he so conflicted about his feelings for her? Had she misunderstood his words? His question?

He sat down uncomfortably close to where he had placed her. She could hear him shredding a dry leaf, reducing it to dust, obviously nervous. She was thankful for the darkness of the moonless light; perhaps it would encourage him to speak more openly.

“What are we going to do?” he said into the night.

She knew damn well to what he was referring.

She allowed the words to echo through the small garden for a moment then wash over her. She savored the _we_ : this was their situation, not only his.

 _Well, you could confess your undying love for me, kiss me madly and beg me to marry you, we could live happily ever after here at the cottage, and the people that criticize our relationship can rot in hell,_ she thought sardonically. “I don’t know,” she responded instead, swallowing all that came to mind, her tone voicing her tacit agreement that this question was something she had wrestled with as well, and she was at a loss.

Feeling his black eyes on her, she turned to meet them in the inky darkness.

She responded with the easiest, the most natural question she could conjure: “What do you _want_ to do, Severus?”

She had used his given name on purpose, without permission, hoping it would indicate that he was not talking to his former student or erstwhile nurse; the woman seated next to him was his equal, perhaps not in years, but in thought, mind and soul, and she wasn’t going to allow him to forget it. They were in territory never traversed before, and her use of his name was to remind him of that fact.

A breath later and he slipped his hand around to the nape of her neck, pulling her into a kiss so passionate that she nearly lost her balance and tumbled headlong from the bench. It took her a moment to catch her breath. _Good God, where did he learn to kiss like that?_

He stopped, peering at her intently. “Hermione…you’re so young. It’s not…appropriate for me to…” She shivered as his fingertips caressed her face.

She would not allow him to stumble over his words. She gave him a hard look then kissed him briefly, halting his rambling. “I’ll be the one to decide that, Severus.”

“Why would you want me? You are beautiful, intelligent, young…you could have anyone you please. It is…irrational.”

“I want you. I don’t want anyone else.” She took a breath. “You forget how attractive you are. You forget…how brilliant.” She reached up to touch his lips, as she had dreamed of doing so many times before. She watched as his eyes shut as she stopped. The pain on his face was nearly enough to persuade her to reach up again. “We have a connection, you and I. I know you feel it.”

She gave him a moment to respond and when he didn’t, she decided this was the instant to be clear. _Regret is what brought Professor Snape right where he is today_ , Poppy had told her the night she had nearly lost him. And if she let this moment escape, she would regret it. Besides, she said nearly as much a moment ago and he hadn’t run from her. Mustering her courage, she said softy, “I’m in love with you, Severus.”

A breath later, he raised an eyebrow and smirked at her, seemingly recovered from his brush with both pleasure and doubt. “I know.”

She knew then, and smiled. Severus Snape was _hers_.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I suspect some of you are waiting for…rated M for a reason...consider yourself warned. :) I hope you enjoy reading it, SS/HG OTP EWE fans! These two can be so cute when they banter…

Severus stood up from the stone garden bench and offered Hermione his hand. She looked up at him gratefully and took it. He led her back into the cottage, across the small sitting room, and into the warm bedroom, wandlessly turning off the lights in their wake, so the only light that remained was the one radiating from the fireplace in his room.

“Will you stay, Hermione?” he asked her softly, brushing her hair back over her shoulder.

“Yes.” She sat down on his bed, as if to emphasize the single word she had spoken.

He placed himself next to her. “Once the world finds out about us, it will be hard on you, Hermione. Not everyone trusts me.”

“I don’t care.” She took a breath and continued, “They will also make things hard on you too, you know. I don’t want to make your life more difficult, Severus.”

He turned towards her to cup her chin in his hand, gently angling it upward so he could meet her eyes. “Were you honest with me? With yourself? When you said you were in love with me?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Then don’t.”

He bent slightly to part her soft lips with his own. His tongue, gentle at first, became more and more urgent; he felt her meet his need with her own as her tongue found his, reflecting the same pressing desire. His right hand traveled down her neck to unhook her robes as his left gently guided her by the back of the neck so he could deepen his kiss. He felt her tangle her fingers in his hair, threading them and pulling him closer yet, deepening her response.

Severus began to unbutton her blouse without ending the kiss, braking off only to lay her back on the bed. Something flickered in her eyes; he didn’t need Legilimency to recognize that it was fear. _Merlin, what…oh. Oh, shit._ He froze. “Hermione, have you…?” he asked softly.

“Never,” she whispered.

“Then…are you sure?” he asked, searching for the assurance that only her eyes could give him.

“I am, Severus,” she answered, and in them, he saw desire, trust…and _certainty_.

“I’ll be right back.” He left the warm bedroom, quickly cutting across the darkened cottage to make for his potions room.

Finding the two phials he was looking for, Severus returned to the bedroom to find Hermione sitting up in his bed, covered by the thin sheet, her arms hugging her bent knees. She had done him the favour of removing the rest of her clothes, giving him a glimpse of her lovely bare back. He had difficulty looking away. “Here.” He opened his hand, revealing what he had retrieved.

Hermione looked up at him curiously. He handed the two phials to her, one at a time. “This is to prevent discomfort. This is prevent pregnancy.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “I assumed neither of us wanted children…yet.”

Hermione smiled. “A sound assumption.” She downed the contents of both without hesitation. “I find it curious that you would have such things…lying around,” she teased, handing him the empty phials.

“I must admit to harboring a…hope to have need of at least one of them very soon.” He smiled at her.

“I’m pleased it occurred to you,” she responded with her own soft smile. Her shoulders lowered a fraction; she let the sheet fall off her.

Severus sat down, breathing in the smell of her skin, her hair. “Now where were we? Ah…yes…I think about…here.” He reached out to graze her body with the tips of his fingers, gliding them downward in a curve between her breasts. She shivered as he leaned in to kiss her; he tenderly laid her back on the bed once more, shrugging off his own shirt and trousers, allowing them to fall to softly to the floor. He continued to caress her, letting his hands wander from her breasts down to her belly. _Merlin, she’s so…beautiful._

He arranged himself in the bed next to her. Capturing them both under the sheet, he dragged Hermione closer; experiencing her skin on his for the length of his body nearly set him careening over the edge of his control. Severus slowly, gently positioned himself on top of her small form. “Are you ready, Hermione?” he whispered.

“Yes…” she looked at him with her honey brown eyes, full of trust.

He eased between her legs with his lean body, reaching down with his fingers to the folds of her sex to ensure that she was, indeed, ready. He gazed into her eyes and paused, branding every nuance of the moment in his memory: the firelight laughing on her skin, the intoxicating curve of her breast, the brazen hunger in her eyes. _I must...I must possess her._ He locked his eyes on hers and pushed himself into her warmth as gently as he could; her eyes widened. He stilled himself as he felt the smallest drop of blood fall between them. “Are you ok, Hermione?” he whispered.

“Yes…” she whispered back to him, never looking away from his eyes.

Then Severus started to move, very carefully so as not to hurt her. At first she stayed motionless—her brown eyes remaining wide as if she were absorbing it all—then Hermione began to move with him, tentatively at first, eventually matching his increasing rhythm. Arching her back and closing her eyes, she panted, “… _Severus_ …” and then hooked her legs around his back to encourage him in even farther.

It was simply too much for him. Yielding to the roar engulfing his body, he cried out, “ _Hermione!_ ” in a ragged voice as a climax ripped through him, so powerful it threatened to unhinge his mind. Severus poured himself unendingly into the tiny witch beneath him— _his_ tiny witch—each pulse more powerful than the one before, each thrust more desperate than the last. He grunted fiercely, then stilled, closing his eyes and panting.

After a moment he opened them to her quiet smile. “Are you OK?” Severus whispered after he caught his breath.

“I don’t think I could be better,” Hermione whispered back, the gentle smile lingering on her lips. She kissed him tenderly.

“Now it’s your turn,” he said, lovingly leaving her to position himself next to her once more.

“Excuse me?”

“You didn’t think we would stop there, did you?”

“I...eh…” she stuttered.

“Articulate this time of night, aren’t we?” he teased. He smirked and pulled the sheet over his head, traveling down her body.

“Severus…?” he heard her ask blankly.

He found her knees in order to separate her legs, pulling his hands down her inner thighs toward her sex. When his hands found their destination, he moved in to stroke her with his fingers. Hermione gasped as he replaced his fingers with his tongue and started to explore. She struggled to keep still, her fists clenching the sheets on either side of her body until her grip was white with strain.

“Ohmygod,” she moaned and gasped again. He smiled around his endeavors.

He stretched his hand up to brush her right nipple, then he latched on to it with more pressure, never letting his tongue leave her below. She drew a ragged breath. He surrendered her breast and slid that hand under her bum, as he eased two fingers inside her with his other hand. Hermione moaned as he discovered her anew with his fingers; then he left her, heading back up her body with his tongue. Her breath hitched; “Oh…” she murmured, and in it, he heard sadness for their loss. Severus glanced up at her face and saw that she had bit her lip nearly white.

“Don’t worry, I’m not done, my tiny witch.” He whispered around her breasts.

Severus drew back to kneel down between her legs, sitting back on his feet and spreading his own thighs, as she lay before him on her back. He pulled her body up to him so that he could enter her, and then begin to stroke her sex with his fingers while he also enjoyed the warmth inside her.

“Ohmygod…” she panted, closing her eyes, clearly at the ragged edge of her desire. He smiled to himself but didn’t reply, continuing to move his fingers over her. She cried out—loudly—and opened her eyes as if surprised; he felt her shudder and pulse against him. He stilled hands and let her lay exposed before him for a moment.

Severus stared into the sated, amber eyes of the beautiful woman in his bed, gave her a gentle smile and began to push his hips toward her, empting himself inside her with a satisfied sigh.

He gently left her again and turned, inviting her to place her head on his chest. Her brown hair was an impossible mess; she was breathing hard. Severus gave her a few moments to recover, enjoying the sound of her receding pleasure. “Are you tired, Hermione? Perhaps we might…?”

She smiled in answer. “How could I refuse you anything after that?” she countered wistfully.

“Come here.”

He abandoned the bed, taking her hand then pulling her close and turning her around in one swift movement so that he was behind her, his need pressing into the small of her back. He brushed her hair away and bit the side of her neck. She gasped.

Hermione seemed to know what he wanted, and climbed back up on the bed, coming to rest on her hands and knees. She was too high for him—so he began to get back on the bed himself. “Wait…” she whispered as she spread her knees, bringing herself down a few inches to meet him perfectly _. The brightest witch of her age…obviously._ “Now…” she said when they were precisely aligned.

He entered her warmth once again, and she cried out. He stopped. “Are you ok?” he managed.

“Yes…” Hermione managed in a soft, shaky voice.

Severus pulled his hips away a fraction. Reaching up to capture a handful of her disheveled hair and twisting it for leverage, he placed his other hand on her shoulder and quickly pulled her down towards him, pushing himself inside her completely. She bent her neck away, forcing him to grip her hair even tighter; he growled and began his cadenced collide into her. His thrusts became more and more urgent, and soon he was slamming himself into her with as much strength as he could summon, driving so hard that she cried out each time. “Hermione!” tore from his throat as he released himself into her. A strangled cry escaped her lips in the sound of his name, but whether it was pain or ecstasy, he didn’t know.

They collapsed onto his bed, both panting, him shaking from effort. He turned her around and kissed her gently. “Thank you.”

Hermione settled her head on this chest once more. “My God, Severus…I…you…”

He huffed a laugh. “Yes?”

“That was better than I ever imagined it could be. And we’ve barely practiced. Imagine what we could aspire to,” she teased.

Severus chuckled. “Let’s sleep, Hermione,” he said softly.

“For a little while,” she responded, and he could hear the growing desire in her voice already.

He chuckled again. “Fair enough, my young witch.”

* * *

 

Severus awoke to honey coloured eyes and an explosion of wiry brown mess, an unruly mob of curls that defied logic and conformity gracing his pillow. Darkness had advanced to coat the slight windows of the cottage and the day’s autumn chill had given way to a sharp, biting cold, but the glow from the bedroom fireplace was warm on his body. She honoured him with a quiet smile, the firelight highlighting her fair skin to a hue that he was certain was reserved for only the most beautiful things on earth. And she was one of those things.

They had fallen asleep after an industrious hour, but both were now quite…awake.

Severus turned onto his side, with his head propped up in his hand as she settled in closer to him. “Well, _Miss Granger_ , is there anything else you would like to… _study_ this evening?”

She smiled widely at his question, reaching out to trace his bicep with her forefinger. “I’m certain I need further instruction in some of the… _details_ of pleasing you. _Sir._ ”

“And I’m certain you need no such thing, _Miss Granger_.”

“Why thank you, _Professor_.”

“Apparently I need to remind you again that I am no longer your professor, _Miss Granger_.”

“So what do you prefer? Perhaps _Master_ Snape?”

He stroked her riotous hair. “Tempting. Hmmm… ‘Yes, Master Snape. No, Master Snape. Anything you desire, Master Snape.’ Such formality is quite appealing,” he mused, teasing her.

“Just tell me what you’d like, and I’ll do it,” she countered, a devious look in her eyes.

“You’ve barely been in my bed for an hour and I see that you’re nicely trained already,” he quipped.

She snorted in laughter.

He looked into her caramel eyes and said softly, “Severus. I prefer… _Severus_ , Hermione.” He leaned in and kissed her.

“I’m in love with you, Severus,” she whispered as he broke away. “How does that sound?”

“It sounds perfect, Hermione.”

He laid back and she moved to place her head on his chest.

“They will no doubt be curious as to why I didn’t return to the dormitory this evening.”

“Curious, yes. But Minerva knows where you are. I suspect Poppy does as well. And as you are of age…”

“I can choose where I sleep. Or rather, where I spend my nights. As the case may be.” She looked up from his chest with a wicked smile.

“Consider staying the all the nights with me, Hermione. You can come after classes and return to the castle in the morning. I want you here,” he said seriously.

“Sounds lovely. Except for the part where I return to the castle in the morning.”

He huffed a laugh. “That’s only on weekdays. And tomorrow is not a weekday.”

“You spoil me, Severus. Arranging tomorrow to be a weekend. I don’t know what to say.”

"I can think of a way for you to express your thanks, my cheeky intern.”

“Oh, do tell, Severus.”

“Well,” he began, “you can start by kissing me again.”

“Oh, I’m happy to do that, Severus. But what if I also…?” she mused, climbing on top of him as he settled on his back.Her tongue flicked to her lips, leaving them wet and parted in anticipation.

“Oh, I wouldn’t like that at all,” he responded sarcastically, his hands on her hips, pulling her down and guiding her to the exact place he needed her to be. “Not at all.”

* * *

 

“I’m afraid we might never leave your bed, Severus,” Hermione mused, laying back on a pillow, cheeks flushed once again.

He pulled his deep green woolen throw over them both.

“Does it truly frighten you? Because it is a possibility. You may blame yourself. Perhaps if you would only cease to entice me, witch, we might emerge sometime next year for some sustenance.”

“You could always summon whatever is in the kitchen, Severus. Then neither of us would bear the responsibility or the blame if we starve.”

“True.” He smiled and paused, taking her hand, running his fingers over the swell of her thumb and kissing her palm.

“You healed me there,” she said simply.

“You healed me here,” he responded, pulling her palm to his chest over his heart. “I love you, Hermione,” he said in a serious voice. Once again, he seemed to have rendered her speechless.

“I love you, too, Severus,” she responded after several breaths, her voice nearly faltering, as she reached up to tenderly run her fingers through his hair.

* * *

 

**Five Months Later**

 

“I mean to have you as my wife, Hermione.”

He said it casually, as if he were commenting on the state of the weather, as if it were obvious to all involved.

Tangled sheets surrounded them, the dawn of a late spring morning bright and warm on their skin. She lay her head on his chest, his arm wrapped around her protectively. They had been talking about what she would do next—discussing applying to the Ministry, attending university, or pursuing a Potions Master. Rather, she’d been rambling about it, and he had listened to her prattle on without interrupting her; he felt an indulgent half-smile on his face as he twirled a length of her hair between his fingertips.

At his words, Hermione rose from his chest to look at him.

He tucked a wayward strand behind her ear to see her face was becoming blotchy and her eyes were filling with tears.

“Oh…” she said softly.

Severus kissed the palm of her hand, and continued to massage her soft skin with the pad of his thumb. “You healed me there,” Hermione said, almost automatically, although her voice cracked with emotion.

He pulled her palm to his chest over his heart and responded as he always did when she uttered those four little words, which had become their private exchange, born the first night they spent together. “You healed me here.” She gazed at him with her caramel eyes, wet with imminent tears, and said nothing more. “I am a man of some means, Hermione. There will be no need for you to find gainful employment unless it is your wish to do so.”

“Oh...” she repeated.

Severus smiled to himself: after all this time, he could still reduce her to speechless. “You did not realize…?”

“No, Severus, I didn’t.” She smiled softly.

“Apparently I have not been thoroughly forthcoming. I hope you don’t find me…lacking in that way,” he smiled around his words, teasing her.

“I don’t find you lacking in any way, Severus,” she responded seriously and met his eyes.

“Even so, permit me the chance to…rectify the situation.” He shifted on the bed, removing himself from her embrace, then turned to open a drawer in his nightstand, producing a small black velvet box. He handed it to her. “Allow me the honour of being your husband, Hermione.”

“Oh…Severus…I…” she said, and then was silent. He could see she was struggling to form words. Finally she responded, as if spoken language was new to her: “Yes.” He reached up to smooth her unruly hair.

Then, through the tears that had started to fall down her lovely face, Hermione Granger smiled at him. He found her smile was all he had ever needed. And all he would ever need, from daybreak to nightfall, and nightfall to daybreak, forever.

 


End file.
